


Knife Edge

by Hibou (moonlightmead), Minou (Maddalia)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightmead/pseuds/Hibou, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddalia/pseuds/Minou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One angry Doyle, one taken by surprise Bodie, one knife, one chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doyle

"What the bloody hell was that all about?"

Doyle is a tower of fury, hair tangled like a gorgon and just as capable of turning hapless on-comers into stone with the venom of his gaze. Both cars driven back separately, both arriving together, and each of them refusing to give way over who gets the garage, so the cars are parked across three spaces on the road and the pair of them facing off in the dimly lit garage.

"Balanced on a knife edge, we were, back there. A fucking knife edge."

He spots the knife, lying abandoned in the ruins of their afternoon tinkering in the garage after the priority call came in, still open. It glints. Not entirely legal, these flick knives – not remotely legal, if he's honest. But some laws really shouldn't have to apply to CI5. He grabs it, closing the ground between the two.

"Like this one! A knife edge! This close! You came this close!"

His words echo in the garage, filling the hollow air to completion. He stands still, poised perfectly on his feet. Neither moves. Their eyes lock. Doyle doesn't exhale. Bodie, following his moves, in sync now – oh, _now_ , yes, fucking brilliant, a big help _now_ – can't breathe either.

Doyle's hand clenches around the hilt.

"Yea-ahh. A knife edge." A tone of revelation. A sliver of relish enters his voice.

"If you want to go there, you go with me. Me, understand?"

Bodie stands at bay, nostrils flared. He takes Doyle's stare and returns it truculently.

Doyle gestures with the knife, slicing abruptly into their field of vision.

"I'm serious, Bodie. I don't know what the fuck's got into you over the past month. I can't anticipate you any more. I don't know which way you're going to jump."

He aims the words as precisely as if he's aiming at targets. "About time you know how that feels."

With one long step, he brings himself within range. Moving round and behind, sweeps his left arm around Bodie's shoulders, pulls up, and it's around Bodie's neck and covering the carotids while Bodie is still too shocked to move. Doyle isn't gentle. If he is gentle, Bodie will be out of this and pressing his face into the concrete in less time than it takes Doyle's cock to go from sleeping to ready-to-fuck-him-right-now, and Doyle can turn on in an eye blink. So in a second he's standing behind Bodie, Bodie who has trusted him, and Bodie who is now in a neck lock. Bodie who will be out of that lock unless Doyle does something right now– Ah. Yes.

"Bodie." A whisper just behind his ear. Bodie's hearing is good, but Doyle guesses that Bodie's blood is thumping, and Doyle is whispering behind his ear, raising the tiny hairs on the pinna, feeling the tension as Bodie makes to move his head. Doyle keeps the lock on.

"Bodie. Feel this?"

Doyle and Bodie are one pillar, entwined, as Doyle presses his body against Bodie's back and tightens his arm around Bodie's neck. Denim runs against denim.

"Doyle– "

Bodie's voice is strained.

"Feel this?" Doyle nips sharply at Bodie's ear, and then brings his other hand up. The one holding the knife. And places the very tip of it just below Bodie's ear.

"How about this? Feel that? I know you do."

Doyle feels Bodie swallow, actually swallow, and exhilaration floods him. After the shit he's been putting up with for the last month, he's no longer being caught out, tentative, uncertain what Bodie will do next. The boot's on the other foot.

Yeah.

He presses the flat of the blade against Bodie's neck right beneath the ear, and gently scrapes it through Bodie's hair, travelling up, lifting the short hairs as it passes and leaving them to half-settle in its wake.

"Yeah, you feel that alright, don't you? Nice and easy, that, isn't it?" Doyle croons, his voice rasping over the softness, and then his voice speeds and sharpens.

"But what about this, eh? Eh?"

The knife is pulled back down to below Bodie's ear and Doyle presses the point very deliberately. Doyle has to make an effort to slow his breathing. Bodie has stopped altogether, saving it, waiting to know what is coming.

Doyle doesn't have time to indulge, but knows the shape of Bodie's bones well. He knows that for all the marks the world inflicts on them, the smooth curve of Bodie's head and ears is unblemished. Somehow the scratches and scars have left him intact here: the skin pure as if it reflects a clear and brightly-washed inner landscape. Doyle sweeps his fingers over this untouched surface of Bodie's.

Then he bites his lip, and pricks a mark right behind Bodie's ear.

"Fuck! Doyle!"

"Am I making my point yet? Do you know what it feels like yet? When your _partner_ , the one whose back you watch, the one who watches yours–" he tightens his arm for a fraction "—does something so fucking outrageous you don't even know if you're going to make it home tonight? When you don't even think you know him!"

Doyle is angry, but the boiling outrage is twisting, uncoiling and refolding, to turn into a different sort of heat. His mind reaches out, takes it, clamps it into a pit under his heart, where it will burn and fuel his feelings.

"Right. If you want to chance both our lives – both of us, Bodie, this wasn't some noble gesture, you wouldn't have saved me by sacrificing yourself," Doyle knows what Bodie was up to and wants Bodie to know it too, "If you want to risk everything, then two can bloody well play at that game."

The flame beneath Doyle's heart is burning cold now. He hopes Bodie realises how serious he is, because he is sick, bloody sick, of the uncertainties he's been living with, and right now, anything that breaks the pattern seems a good tactic to take. They don't do talking. They work together – mostly successfully. They hunt together – or did, but they ensnared each other, and the hunting has fallen off. They screw. Hard and fast in snatched moments, most of it. Once or twice, long and gentle, like that time when they had thrown themselves, exhausted, onto the divan bed, and woken in the early summer morning, to take their time and feel their way up and down each other's bodies, the clean dawn sun washing them with light, and the city as silent as it ever could be, until the rattling of the milk float broke their secret morning.

The rattling of the wind under the garage door rouses him. He realises that as soon as he lets up, Bodie will be on him in a flash – a punch to the gut and a kick to keep him down, most likely, before striding off to God knows where, to do God knows what. All or nothing, then. No going back until it's finished.

"You forced me to follow your lead," Doyle reminds him, and presses the knife half an inch lower than the spot where a bright drop of blood is welling slowly, still not heavy enough to fall.

He feels Bodie swallow again. He's not going to wait for Bodie to make up his mind; Bodie hardly allowed him the luxury of a pause for thought, after all. And the longer he pauses, the more he is aware of his arm, clenched and rigid, and of how perilous their position is.

He lifts the knife from Bodie's skin and instead lets his hand trail down to Bodie's crotch and brush over the fabric. It would be nice to think that Bodie is as turned on as he is, but he is not surprised to realise that Bodie is not yet up to speed. Doyle is surprised to find how hard he is himself, though. Finally the uncertainties have been replaced. He may not know quite what he's doing or how, although he's damn sure on the why, but some part of him knows what he's going to do.

He adjusts his hold on the knife. His fingers slip down to the tip, his forefinger pressing down on it, the handle firmly in his palm, his thumb pressed in at about the point it would pivot. He uses his middle finger to feel for the slackness beneath the material, so he knows where Bodie is not pressed up against it, and presses the point of the knife through. The threads snap like spider web and there is a whisper of rent fabric. Barely audible, but it rips through the air.

Bodie is absolutely still, his whole body rigid with shock. But he doesn't move beyond a convulsive swallow. When his voice finally comes, it is hoarse with strain. "Fucking hell, Doyle."

Doyle almost comes on the spot.

The point of the knife is still through the material. Doyle drags it very slowly along the groove where he is confident he won't touch Bodie beneath it. The air in the garage hangs heavily. They're just lucky they closed the door, because there's no way he can stop now.

The jeans rip along the cut. Thread by thread by thread.

As each thread falls, Doyle can feel Bodie's certainties fall. Finally, the knife reaches the top.

"That's better," he observes. Carefully, he manages to get the knife under the waistband, and pulls upwards and through it. No patch is going to hide this: there is a knife cut shadowing the zip now. Bodie is caught uncomfortably but doesn't move. Doyle can feel tension coming off in waves, an invisible aura hanging over the two of them and holding them together. He withdraws the knife, tucks it into his palm, and runs the back of his knuckles along the rent. There is a bulge between it and the zip now.

Moving slightly to the left, he exposes Bodie's back right pocket. With his free hand, he gives a sharp tug to the t-shirt so that it is out of the belt at the back, and then moves his hand up Bodie's back, making sure that Bodie can feel the point of the knife. He rests it above Bodie's kidneys, then down a fraction, and presses his knuckles into the kidney on the right. Just enough to make an impression. They are always getting bruises there – it's an occupational hazard – and he knows that a jab to a bruised kidney hurts. Good.

Bodie's breath hisses inwards, and he tries to move forward. Then, incredibly, he pushes back. Doyle frowns, unseen. He can't really want– Oh. Of course.

"Hard man, is it? Going to show me how the SAS handle themselves? Well, you forgot, _mate_ ," the endearment spat out, "I'm the one doing the handling around here." He moves his hand down, down into the pocket and gropes, harshly, before pulling sharply back. Bodie is tugged back by the force of it.

"Oh dear," Doyle whispers, joyfully, ceremoniously. "Not much room in there, is there?" If his voice were liquid, it would be dark and glittering, shimmering promise above and opaque depths below, impossible to scry.

The neck muscles under Doyle's arm clench and Doyle lifts his head away from Bodie so that he can see the muscles contracting under the skin.

Doyle is enchanted. He stares at the glistening drop of blood beneath Bodie's ear. It has finally grown large enough, and as he watches, it begins to escape the cut and to roll gently down, altering its course as it tracks over the pits and hollows of Bodie's neck. It leave behind a trail, marking its presence. Doyle pulls with his arm, forcing Bodie to turn his head, pulling his neck around too, and he presses his face onto Bodie as his tongue tip flicks out to Bodie's skin, anticipating the trickle of the blood drop and its light trail. Brushing upwards, he licks the droplet delicately off the skin. Bodie's blood. Bodie's life. In him.

Salt and metal and sweat and oil. A heady mixture for one small drop. Invisible sparks flicker from the metal and fizz in his mouth as Doyle considers the taste on his tongue: it holds the shattered light that Doyle imagines is too fast to see when he or Bodie loose off their weapons in the moment.

Bodie's skin tastes of sweat. Doyle keeps his head buried in Bodie's neck as he lifts the knife again and, using his knuckles and palm to stop him touching the skin, inserts it under the fabric of the jeans themselves. Ahh. Yes. Where his face touches Bodie's flesh, Doyle can feel faint goose bumps.

"You left me vulnerable this afternoon, Bodie." Doyle's words vibrate through Bodie's skin. "Felt like I was standing there with my arse hanging out for all to see." He presses his lips around the cut on Bodie's neck as if to kiss, pulls gently with his lips, his tongue making tiny circles of consolation within them. And then nips, hard. Bodie really does jerk this time.

"Exposed." Doyle presses the point home. Both points. One whispered into Bodie's neck. The other inching its way down inside Bodie's jeans until he fears his wrist will be trapped. If he does that, Bodie will swing round and have him in seconds.

"Yeah." Doyle's voice is a purr as he yanks the blade up. Hard. The world swims a little. Only the sound of ripping fabric anchors him to it.

Fingers still curled around the blade, he uses the backs of his knuckles to feel how much damage he has done to Bodie's jeans. Not quite enough to expose Bodie the way he wants, but entirely enough to keep him off-balance, rents down both the front and back.

"We're going for a walk now," he whispers into his partner's neck, still keeping the neck hold, looking forward now to releasing it – oh, God, his arm is aching. "Not far. Just to the wall. And when we get there, you are going down on your knees. Down on your knees for me. Right?"

Silence.

He's not having silence. "Hmm?"

There is a nod.

"Okay. Slowly. With me."

They begin their slow progression to the wall. Doyle thinks that Bodie has accepted matters, but then Bodie appears to stumble. Instinctively, Doyle slackens his arm, and Bodie reaches like a snake. There is a frantic moment of struggle and he is swung around. Doyle on his wave of adrenalin has to remember not to use the knife – this is, after all, _Bodie_ – and it is only luck that sees them finish in exactly the position he had envisaged, him slammed against the wall and Bodie down on one knee in front of him. He couldn't have planned it better.

Doyle is flying now, seizing the seconds and filling them before Bodie can react, and before Bodie can do anything else stupid – which, right now, means anything at all – Doyle rips his jeans button open and whips his hands back onto Bodie, one pressing down on Bodie's head and the other holding the knife against Bodie's jawline. He squirms, dragging his arse against the breeze blocks behind him, the friction forcing his own jeans far down enough to free himself at the front.

"Now." He steers Bodie's head to his groin. "Do it. Do it now."

As Bodie leans forward, Doyle flips the knife sideways. His cock springs forward, grazing slightly on the teeth of the zip. He prays those are the only teeth he's about to feel, and then hot lips surround him, and Bodie is taking him in and pursing his lips to cover his teeth and running those lips up his cock and Christ, he's hard, and Christ, he has to keep at least some control, that's the whole fucking point, he is the one taking the flailing strands of their lives and knotting them endlessly together, turning them into a pattern that can't be undone.

He twists his fingers and tries to hold Bodie's hair, but it's too short, so he settles for spreading his fingers wide over the back of Bodie's head and directing Bodie: pushing his head further and further before releasing it for half a breath – only half, don't give him the control back – then _again_ , and _again_ , his other hand holding the knife against the crease of his own thigh, where each pressed jerk of Bodie's head brings him fractions of an inch from it, giving Bodie no chance to react, no chance to anticipate, no chance to plan.

He wants to lie in abandonment against the wall, head sprawled and eyes gazing sightlessly, but he forces himself to look down through the gloom, seeing Bodie's head below him, seeing the knife between them, seeing himself in control at fucking last, and yes, he deserves this, and Bodie deserves this, and together they deserve each other, a pair of risk-takers who take greater risks together than they ever would alone, and here is one that they can only take together.

And he comes in glory –

 


	2. Bodie

Doyle lets out his breath noisily. For a second afterwards, neither of them breathes, and there is complete silence. Then Doyle looks down to see Bodie looking up, large-eyed and purposeful, straight at him. Slowly he leans back, releasing Doyle’s cock inch by inch from his mouth. Doyle doesn’t attempt to stop him pulling away. He relaxes infinitesimally, and that’s all Bodie needs to wrest the knife from his hand as, seamlessly, he glides up off his knees. Doyle catches at his wrist as Bodie attempts to lay the blade against his throat. Bodie aims a kick at his shin, and as Doyle staggers, Bodie twists his arm away. Doyle’s face is an inch from being smashed into the wall as Bodie spins him around and shoves him forward.

‘Watch it!’

‘Shut up.’

‘Ouch!’ The knife has nicked Doyle just under the point of his chin. After a few seconds, a thin trickle of blood runs down his throat.

‘Is this pleasant for you?’ Bodie’s breath tickles Doyle’s ear.

‘What do you think?’ Doyle asks, through gritted teeth.

‘I don’t think, I know.’ Bodie trails the knife gently up and down Doyle’s throat, following the blood. ‘Did it make you feel better, Doyle? You haven’t been your normal cheery self lately.’

_‘I_ haven’t been normal? You ...’

‘How am I s’posed to have your back if you dither on every move? You’ve lost your confidence, mate. I won’t pretend I know why. But if it carries on, Cowley’ll start noticing. As it is I’ve been acting for both of us out there. ‘S not my fault if you get left behind. So don’t you talk to _me_ ...’ he nicks Doyle’s chin again, and Doyle flinches ‘...about knife-edges.’

Doyle closes his eyes. So they both think the other is in the wrong. Maybe they both are. They don’t do talking. How are they meant to know?

‘Alright. Now the boot’s on the other foot, let’s see how youlike _me_ ruining _your_ clothes.’

The knife is on the seam at the back of Doyle’s jeans. Doyle gasps at the speed and precision with which Bodie cuts and rips. The knife is back at his throat before he’s taken a third breath.

‘Fuck! You done that before?’

‘That’s for me to know and you never to find out.’

Doyle exhales. ‘Africa?’

‘Africa.’

Bodie holds the knife in place with one hand, reaches sideways with the other. He drags Doyle along a little, and his hand grasps something from a table nearby. Doyle struggles against the one-armed grip, but Bodie brings his foot down on Doyle’s, exerting pressure.

‘Don’t you fucking move. I’m doing this ‘cause I care, you know.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Doyle can’t see what Bodie’s free hand is doing.

‘Gun oil.’

Then Doyle cries out, as Bodie shoves two fingers through the hole in his jeans and straight up into him. It would have been worse if they weren’t slick with oil, but Doyle isn’t in the mood to be grateful.

‘Bastard! That hurts!’

‘You deserve it.’

‘In case you’ve forgotten, I hardly touched you. And you already cut me back.’

‘True,’ Bodie says. ‘But it’s more than that.’ His fingers are beginning to probe and explore. The pain is receding. It’s starting to feel good. Stubbornly, Doyle fights it, but even he knows he doesn’t stand a chance. He relaxes to prevent cramping, and to ease the movement of Bodie’s fingers, and he finds himself being pulled back against his partner with something like gentleness. But Bodie’s voice is still savage next to his ear.

‘You scared me. You’re the one man on earth with no right to do that. The one man I trusted never to do that.’

‘I trusted you to be where I could see you,’ Doyle shot back. ‘And not to take stupid risks.’

‘You deliberately, pre-meditatedly ...’

‘All _right.’_ Doyle gives in. His brain is fogging up, anyway. Bodie is stroking him inside ... his hand whispers against the ripped denim ... the beginnings of interest are starting to stir in Doyle’s recently spent cock ... Bodie has him. Even if he dropped the knife, he’d still have him. But it’s OK. Somehow, Doyle feels like they’re back on equal ground.

‘Our job isn’t easy, you know,’ Bodie whispers. His lips are touching the outside of Doyle’s ear. ‘It’s violent enough out there, isn’t it? In here, I want ...’ He trails off as Doyle moans softly, and Doyle feels those lips curve into a smile.

‘I think you’re ready for the main event. Question is, can I trust you? If I drop this, will you turn on me?’

‘I won’t, I swear,’ Doyle breathes. ‘Oh ... ah, for God’s sake, Bodie, do it.’

Bodie withdraws his fingers. Doyle sighs. Then he feels the tip of Bodie’s cock, wet with precum, pressing into the crack of his arse. It moves up and down, setting nerve endings on fire, and Doyle moans again, grinding backwards, encouraging, inviting ... but the knife is still at his throat, and Bodie’s breathing is still even; he seems in no hurry to make his entrance.

‘Bodie, you can trust me.’

‘Promise.’

‘Only if you promise to get your bloody act together.’

‘I was only responding to you.’

‘Alright. Promise we’ll talk this over. If we’ve both got a problem ...’

‘Right. I promise.’

‘So do I.’

A few seconds’ silence and stillness. Then Bodie lets the knife fall. His hand tugs at Doyle’s hair, tilting his head back. He kisses Doyle’s blood-stained throat. And still he teases; still he doesn’t push.

_‘Do_ it!’ Doyle growls.

‘What’s the magic word?’

Doyle bares his teeth. ‘Abracadabra.’

Bodie shows _his_ teeth, but in an amused grin.

‘Good enough,’ he says. One hand snakes down, grasps Doyle’s hardening cock at the base, strokes from root to tip ... and in one thrust he takes him completely, and Doyle forgets the problems outside, forgets they were arguing, forgets they’ve promised each other an awkward conversation sometime in the future. He knows only the here and now -- the wonder, not the danger, of what they have. He knows a closeness he has never felt with another human being.

Doyle will put a patch over that rent in his jeans. And if things get difficult again, perhaps even if things are good, he will put them on, and walk a few steps in front of his partner.

_No matter what happens, we still have this._


End file.
